Small beads of sweat shone at his temple, and the light of the lamps caught them as they welled beneath the brim of his hat. He shifted on the bench.
The situation was extremely delicate. There were plots and conspiracies, assassinations and simple murders, and the devil take the hindmost.
Lightning quick reflection convinced me that I should dig deeper. I simply had to take the risk. “I agree. I need the gold. But what will keep me from telling my lady?”
“Ah!” he sighed. His piggy eyes glanced furtively to the side. The ruffians pulled the Fristle fifi’s tail, and I had to firmly remember that I was not allowed to intervene. So-called men who torment young women for pleasure are ripe for the garbage.
“You will be under observation.”
Afterwards, I deciphered this as: “We have ways and means of knowing what you are doing.” Instead, he said: “Your life is now in our hands. You will be notified of the time. The voryachin pond was an excellent plan which failed only because of your meddling. See to it that no one can interfere with you.”
I kept my black-fanged winespout closed and listened. He looked up at me keenly from beneath his hat. “When you all fell into the water, we thought our plan had been successful. They told me it was an impressive sight when the lady was catapulted out of the pond and you stepped out of the water behind her. Impressive, by Dokerty.”
This additional remark aroused a fierce sensation of extreme panic in me. It was far worse than mere concern. By the disgusting diseased liver and lights of Makki Grodno! Someone had been in the green draped chamber and had been secretly watching me! Someone in Quensella’s household was a damned lying traitor! Whether a man or a woman, they were there, like pubic lice. I struggled for self-control. Whoever it was, they were controlled by this Indrin or his men but were not capable of committing the murder. They merely observed and reported back.
Right! I told myself. By the Black Chunkrah! Upon my return, I would check everyone, regardless of their position or how highly they regarded Quensella.
Indrin looked at me suspiciously. I took a sip of the tangy red wine, thinking. Quensella’s maids had not been present at the crucial moment when Nath had attacked his lady. The girls were devoted to their mistress. They were always present. They were in the best position to carry out the monitoring that Indrin boasted of.
Oh yes, by Krun! I would ask the maids a few polite questions, with or without the permission of the lady Quensella.
So how could I agree to carry out this vile plot of the sleazy Advang and his men?
“Are you certain?” Indrin spoke so violently that spittle sprayed through the air. “You look... strange...”
“I am certain.”
“Excellent. Remember, you belong to us, body and ib. Now go. I will follow later. I don’t want to attract any attention.” He picked up his wine glass. “We will let you know when it is time.”
I stood up, turned my back on him and left the tavern.
Outside, the darkness was lessened by the fuzzy pinkish light of the Maiden with the Many Smiles. I glanced up. This moon of Kregen, which is known as the first moon, only seemed bigger than the others because of its proximity. The many different appearances were apparently caused by its own atmosphere. I shrugged and gave a surreptitious glance back when I reached the next corner.
The quick glimpse told me that Indrin’s group of thugs had left the establishment after me. Had I taken a direct path back to the palace, I would have allowed the men to follow on my heels. But I had no intention of returning directly to the palace. Oh no, by Krun!
I moved furtively in and out of the shadows, jinked a couple of times, doubled back, and they lost me. This happened entirely without problems. Then I picked a spot from where I could watch the guests leaving The Pleasant Rest without being seen.
He finally stepped into the street, not drunk, but pleased with himself.
Just as I was about to follow him to his hideout, two things happened. It started to rain and three of his henchmen came out of the shadows and talked to him. They waved their arms about, gesticulating. The rain would make my mission both easier and more difficult. I could not hear what they said. As is well known, in every intrigue there is a lot of discussion to plan everything carefully. I could imagine what was going on; it was clear to me that the three ruffians had gone to the palace but failed to see me arrive there.
They started off and I followed them, a scurrying shadow in the falling rain.
There was very little wind and the rain fell almost vertically, the hissing murmur covering all noise. The street lighting in Prebaya was not the best, and where the rain had extinguished the unprotected torches stuck to the walls of the houses it was darker than any honest man would have liked. Thank Djan I was not an honest man, because I pursued this bunch with sinister intentions.
The Largesse flows through Prebaya in a south easterly direction, and it is here that two tributaries join it from almost opposite directions. The royal palace is built on the V-shaped piece of land formed where the northern stream of the small river Radiant Light flows into the Largesse. On the V-shaped piece of land between the southern stream, the river of Green Rushes, and the Largesse, many of the temples of the city are located and some of the wealthy merchants have built beautiful villas there. The north-eastern part of the city is a maze of streets and alleys, and only Opaz knows what deviltries takes place there. In the south are workshops, market squares, and some of the more sophisticated entertainment venues. The city has a myriad of bridges. I followed my quarry across the river of Green Rushes into the temple area.
It rained unceasingly. Besides us, only a few people were on the glistening wet roads. I pursued my prey like a hunting leem.
At the end of a long alley they stopped under a canopy. They spent a moment or two with heads together, talking, then they entered a building. This must be the back of the building because above the covered door with the windows flanking it, the walls were unbroken to the roof. I crept along softly and stopped at the door.
I pushed down on the handle. Of course, the door was locked.
Just as I withdrew my hand, the scrape of a pushed-back bolt warned me. I stepped back as the door opened.
The three ruffians came out. They saw me, and did not hesitate.
They were probably no more than paid thugs. But they were not fools. In the moment they saw me, they understood why I was standing there and what my intentions were.
“You blintz!” exclaimed the nearest thug and tore his braxter from its scabbard. The other two moved to either side and also drew their swords.
The drexer came out from its leather scabbard. To be faced with three swords brandished in enemy fists was nothing new for Dray Prescot. Speed was the main necessity. Raging speed.
How good they were depended on the skill conferred on them by Kurin. Because of their profession they would have considerable experience in sword fighting. Two of them wore the glittering silver at their necks. Because they were what they were, they tried to attack me as a man. They did not come one after the other, as do many inexperienced fighters. A lantern hanging at an angle from the canopy gave their blades a deadly glare.
A wild leap from the side paired with a cutting blow to my neck was blocked by a clever upwards deflection of the fellow’s braxter which broke at the hilt. The blade flew into the air. The speed surprised him, he fell back, and then a loud, bright, clanging sound echoed through the alley.
A really pleasing sound, I thought, as I whirled around, catching the sword of the next fighter on my own blade and kicking him from below. The braxter of my opponent broke in the middle, my drexer held.
My thrust was so low that my drexer easily slid under his armor and into his body. He did a jerky lurch to the left and backwards, freeing my blade to face the third man who tried to be overly clever and attack with a series of complex sword gyrations. He failed mightily in my opinion. There is no time for finesse in a wild cut and thrust of this kind. One must assess one’s opponent, do whatever is necessary and turn quickly to the next one.
I jumped in one direction, while he leaped over his fallen comrades in the other direction, I jumped back and caught him with a tidy thrust through the neck.
The one who had lost his blade tore out his second braxter. His dark face was contorted with rage. Until now, he had shown no fear. His two comrades had died before his eyes, and the flickering lantern light made their greasy red blood look almost black. Judging by his reaction to my surprise attack, he was clearly an excellent swordsman. Maybe it was just the difference in the quality of the steel that had saved me. I am always — even in such trifling small fights as this — aware that I can meet a swordsman who is superior to me. As you know, I’ve never claimed to be the best swordsman of two worlds. That would only be inflated bravado.
You can be sure that I have never forgotten Mefto the Kazzur...
He came boldly up to me, I placed myself next to the dead bodies lying on the ground, and our blades clashed. As expected, he was very good.
I could not tell which school of the sword had trained him. He knew how to handle his braxter, knew the cut-and-thrust techniques inside and out.
The blades clashed together and I felt the blows right up my arm. My muscles responded and I sank into the sublime state of consciousness of a fencing sword fighter, all worldly things forgotten. My blade spoke for itself. He fought on, more and more desperately, and it was only when he attempted a risky lunge that the end came for him.
I stepped back, pulled my blade from his neck and thought about the fact that he had with his last lunge effectively impaled himself on my sword. So I raised my blade as a last salute; doing that was not embarrassing to me, by the Blade of Kurin, not at all. Even if he was little more than a thug, he had tried to earn his pay. I wished him an effortless passage through the Ice Floes of Sicce to the sunny uplands beyond.
The three dead men disappeared into the shadows where they could not be seen by the light of the lantern. I quickly cleaned my drexer on their clothing.
The door stood open invitingly. I entered.
The corridor was tiled and was poorly lit by a few scattered lanterns. The walls and ceiling were simply whitewashed. The doors were made of thin purtle wood with cheap fittings. But they were all closed — except for one standing wide-open at the end of the corridor. This was the back entrance to the building, and my man must have gone into one of the front rooms. I followed him.
The adjoining rooms and corridors were all deserted. They were fitted out with carpets, woven tapestries on the walls, and bright lighting.
The silence was oppressive. Where had Indrin gone?
Perhaps it would have been wiser to go back through the passage and round to the front of the building to get a better idea of the layout. Then I would know where Indrin might be.
I had decided to go back when the noise of approaching feet made me stop. An alcove to my right offered cover in the shadows. I slipped into it like a hunted paly and turned around in time to see a man and a woman pass by. The two didn’t notice me, no, by Shansi, the Sprite of Love!
Both wore long red robes. They walked arm in arm, their heads touching. They walked past me so absorbed in one another that the whole wide world of Kregen had ceased to exist for them. I followed them because I thought they might lead me somewhere that would help me in my mission better than I could manage on my own.
After they had walked through a few corridors, they opened a narrow door and disappeared from view. The door opened soundlessly. The space behind it was long and narrow, and down one wall there were openings with metal gratings through which light could enter. The two lovebirds were more lying than sitting on the bench on the wall opposite the openings, and kissed each other passionately. Two gentle taps on each of their heads and they fell asleep, where they would no doubt continue their lovemaking in their colorful dreams.
It was no problem to bind them; I availed myself of their garments. In addition, I tied them together, covered their eyes and gagged them. They could not call for help, and they certainly could not describe my face. The red robes made me think. I held the man’s robe in the air and looked at it thoughtfully. Yes. This would be useful if I was where I thought I was.
Beyond the wall with the spy-holes there was a brittle crackling sound, followed by a gong, and I whirled around.
I pressed an eye to an opening.
The chamber into which I peered was spacious and the walls were covered by red curtains. Evil-smelling smoke emerged from a tripod standing at the side. In the middle was a cage. Men and women in red robes were standing in obviously ritualistic formation in the chamber. They wore artifacts of gold and silver, which must be the symbols that embodied divine power for them. I took a hissing breath. Naghan ti Indrin was swathed in red with the others opposite the imposing figure standing in front of the cage.
The cage was interesting. The bars were thick, even very thick. By their blue shimmer I suspected that they were not forged from local steel. It was highly likely it had been imported from Hamal or Zenicce. The cage was at least twice the height of a man and constructed such that whatever was imprisoned was there forever; they would never get out — not at all, by Krun!
From a side door almost out of my field of vision came a little procession. The wall behind which I stood was solid stone, and the line of fretted peepholes undoubtedly made a pretty pattern when seen from the other side. If this procession led in a young woman who would be sacrificed in a blasphemous way, I had no way to break through to rescue her.
But there was no young woman — there came a young man.
They had wrapped him in a clean white robe. His face was relaxed and absent of any sign of worry, his walk upright, his shoulders straight. He looked happy. Well, in my experience, for many of the terrible cults and religions on Kregen it is a small matter to make sure that their victims are pleased to be chopped into small pieces.
The disgusting smell of incense came through the peepholes and irritated my nose. I did not sneeze. Music was played, then was drowned out by a long drawn-out chant, constantly repeated.
“Oltomek!” they sang. It could also be Altamek or Ultumak. The monotone cry rang out again and again as two symbols attached high up on their poles were carried in a ritual procession. First came a gilded beast that seemed to come from a nightmare; it was winged, taloned and fanged. The thing’s ruby ??eyes glinted and sparkled. It was followed by the swaying symbol of a pair of upflung curving wings, joined at the tips to form an oval. The gilded poles swayed, the idols glittered golden and ruby ??red, and the incense stank. And the red clad crowd chanted continuously: “Oltomek! Oltomek!”
What was most interesting about the whole affair was the use of the name Oltomek. A horde of fanatics had sung this name as Dagert of Paylen — a charming scoundrel, gentleman and acquaintance of mine — the poor old Palfrey and I had secretly observed them and their procession in some ruins. Even at this moment, while I spied on this hocus-pocus, I remembered Dagert with the respect with which you appreciate wily opponents. What was that elegant conman up to at the moment?
At the end of the procession were a group of men and women whose hoods were not red but black. They carried trays covered by red cloths. They were menacing; I could feel the coldness emanating from their sinister disguise.
What happened next can only be described as diabolical.
On a sort of banking desk, which stood under the openings in the corridor wall through which I observed the infernal practices taking place in the chamber, was paper, quills and ink. The two lovebirds had had the task of watching the horrific scenes and writing it all down. The contrast between these two activities was so large that no normal person could comprehend it.
The young fellow in the white robe was subjected to terrible tortures. He was not maimed or injured, he just had pain inflicted on him. Impossibly, the whole time the expression on his face remained joyous; an inner force that welcomed the pain with fervor brought a glow to his face.
It reminded me of the expression on Duven’s face when he believed he suffered a righteous martyr’s death for Cymbaro the Just. Fanatics! According to some scholars on two worlds, the evil that they create nearly surpasses the good that they could do.
After some time, during which I had turned away from what was happening in the chamber of horrors, there was silence. The young lad had screamed when the pain was too bad, and staggered, until they supported him. As the eerie silence descended, I looked again curiously into the chamber.
The tortured man was dressed in his white garment again. He stood in a group with the high priest and priestesses, laughed and drank wine from a silver cup, gave the impression of cheerfulness and seemed very happy to be with them.
The red and black hoods made it difficult to identify the faces of these people. Indrin stood out from the crowd because I had seen him recently. But from the brief glimpse of a long or a big nose, a crooked chin, a bushy beard, beautifully curved, moist red lips and a narrow mouth that looked like a cut in a leather jerkin, I was able to create a tableau of these people in my mind. It was quite possible that I would recognize this slit mouth and those beautiful Cupid’s bow shaped lips, should I meet them again.
The general murmur of conversation died abruptly when a trumpet sounded. The sound shrilled and echoed through the room. A woman in a red robe took the lad by the hand and led him into the cage. He turned around, as if he wanted to go, and I thought he wanted to kiss her on the cheek. But I was wrong. She left the cage, and he stretched his arms up into the air triumphantly as if to reach for the stars. He enjoyed the experience, this exultation of the spirit.
The woman stood by the side of a large, burly man. They both stared intently into the cage. The man raised his hand.
“May Oltomek grant us our wish! This test will prove that our ibs are truly holy!” He then held out both arms and was handed the pole with the golden replica of the wings that formed an oval.
The symbol swayed from side to side as the ecstasy took him under its spell. I could not see his face; probably his eyes were so twisted that only the whites showed — two half-moons of madness.
“Oltomek! Oltomek!”
The man waved the winged symbol around with a sudden and violent movement until it was in a horizontal position, and he pointed it directly at the young man in the cage.
An audible gasp went through the crowd of spectators.
Then absolute silence fell over the chamber, while the gold-plated pole with the wings at the end was directed at the young man. The red-gowned man roared a single word with a shrill voice.
“Dokomek!”
The lad in the cage flinched and stumbled back. He began to grow. His face swelled. The red glow of madness glared in his eyes. The white garment bulged out and tore apart as his chest swelled. The body changed to an unbelievable extent. The distorted features were no longer those of an ordinary young man; bloodthirsty madness was written on his face. The figure raised its arms, and its hands unleashed claws that slashed through the air in its desire to tear its enemies to pieces. I knew what had become of the young lad.
A diabolical spirit had taken possession of him. It was powered by a single thought: destruction. Ghastly and unnatural, it flung itself against the bars of the cage. Its insane rage was enough to freeze the soul.
Ibmanzy!